


Grant Your Wayward Children Grace

by Fiver



Series: Under My Wings You Will Find Refuge [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-06-28 09:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19809622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiver/pseuds/Fiver
Summary: A collection of side-stories from the world of 'Under My Wings You Will Find Refuge'.Chapter 1: Combeferre first met Grantaire when he was twenty-one and newly in charge of the Musain network of hunters. Grantaire first met Combeferre a bit earlier than that.Chapter 2: Feuilly and Bahorel meet at the Musain for the first time in a while.Chapter 3: Jehan bravely pays a visit to Enjolras after Grantaire reveals the truth about himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Moving these little extra stories over from tumblr! Constantly in danger of writing more such supplementary content, too, but I'm doing my best to focus on the main story. I hope you enjoy having it all in one place!

Grantaire goes to the Musain when he's feeling particularly miserable. It's a miserable place, and sometimes misery loves company. It's one of his favourite places to go when he just wants to wallow in his certainty that the world is an awful place – after all, how could he ever doubt it, surrounded by such embittered, angry and bloodthirsty specimens of humankind? Yes, he found the Musain was the perfect place for reminding himself that there is absolutely no hope to be had.

When he arrives on this day, however, he is somewhat put-out to find the usual gloomy atmosphere to be noticeably absent. In fact, the place is practically _jubilant._ And that's bizarre. He can't imagine how many monsters must have died to inspire the revelry he finds himself in the middle of.

The celebrating hunters can't see him, of course. Technically, he's on a break from the Musain. A generation-long break. Too many of the hunters he had been seeing here frequently for years were starting to get grey in their hair and lines on their faces, and it would only have been a matter of time before they noticed that no such signs of mortality were showing on him. Today he'd come only to observe.

As it turns out, the reason for the high spirits is not actually in any way related to a death toll, which makes the whole thing even more bizarre. In Grantaire's experience, the only thing that can coax a smile from a hunter is news of a particularly grisly hunt. But today it is quite the opposite: in the centre of the throng is a hunter that Grantaire knows but hasn't seen in a while – not for around nine months, he supposes now – and in her arms she is holding a baby. A boy, if his entirely blue clothes are anything to judge by. The mother is smiling. Another hunter, presumably the proud father – Grantaire recognises him as the unspoken leader of the Parisian division of hunters; a powerful and short-tempered man – is slapping the bar and shouting for another round of drinks. Ah, that would explain the cheerful atmosphere, then. Not so much the little miracle of a new life as the offer of a free drink. Well, Grantaire won't hold that against them.

The baby looks like he can hardly be more than a few weeks old, but his eyes are wide open and he seems to be peering around in bewilderment. His tiny soul is fluttering wildly, overwhelmed by the crush and the noise all around him. Grantaire feels his own despondency increase even more than it would have if the Musain had been its usual dreary self today. Normally the sight of a mother and her newborn child is enough to lift his spirits a little, but not _here,_ not when both mother and father are _hunters._ In twenty years, that child is going to be nothing more than just another weary, bitter soldier in his parents' war, stumbling in here for new orders and a drink for the road.

Still unseen, Grantaire slips in close, lays a hand gently on the child's almost hairless head. He wishes he could do something. Wishes he could steal him away from this place and set him down in a happier life somewhere. But that's the stuff of fairytales.

“You're going to have to be very brave,” he says quietly instead, resigned and forlorn.

~

It's four years before Grantaire returns to the Musain. The world is big and there are a lot of places to kill time when you're drifting aimlessly through eternity. Plenty of other places to mope, too; plenty of other hunters' dives. He thinks that, as long as the Musain is standing, he'll always end up coming back to it, though. There's just something about it.

This time, the atmosphere does not disappoint: the upper floor is full of nothing but grim, grizzled old hunters, tired after hunts or just tired in general. The place is almost eerily silent, as none of them are talking to each other, just staring into drinks or cleaning weapons or slumped passed out on tables.

It takes Grantaire a few moments to notice the boy in the corner. He's small and skinny and wearing shorts that show his scabbed knees. He's sitting on a low stool with a small pile of books at his side and a stuffed bear tucked under one arm. He keeps glancing up; at length, he gets to his feet and approaches the nearest table.

“When's my mum and dad getting back?” Grantaire hears him ask the hunter sitting there. The hunter, who is busily poring over a mythology textbook, looks up irritably.

“How should I know?” he says, waving the boy away. “They'll be back when they're back. Go sit down and be quiet.”

The boy doesn't argue. He looks rather too well-used to being dismissed in such a way.

Grantaire glances around. He recognises most of the hunters here, but he's fairly sure none of them would recognise _him._ Nobody is paying much attention to their surroundings, anyway. He's still supposed to be on a break from this place, but he thinks he can break his own rule just this once.

He's always had a soft spot for children.

He settles down at a table and slowly comes out of hiding – if he does it gradually enough, it's not noticeable. It's as if he's always been there. When he's properly _present,_ he gets to his feet and walks to the corner. The boy looks up at his approach; he blinks up at him through a pair of plastic-framed glasses, and his eyes already look like they should belong to a much older and much sadder person, and for a moment Grantaire can do nothing but look back at him, wanting to say so much but knowing that he can't. _I'm sorry. Your life was doomed to be like this from the moment you were born, and I saw you and I knew that and I didn't change it. Maybe I could have. Could've appeared in a fucking heavenly vision to your parents or something, told them to quit hunting. Could've burned this place to the ground. I didn't. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you're going to grow up so miserable._

“Do you know when my mum and dad'll be back?” the boy asks finally. He doesn't look at all frightened to be approached by a stranger – he's undoubtedly been passed around dozens of hunters for babysitting already, and they probably all look the same to him by now.

“I don't,” Grantaire says apologetically. He wonders how old this boy will be when his parents don't come home from a hunt. He wonders if it will be today. “What are you reading?”

The boy fingers the book in his lap uncertainly. “It's about giants, and things.”

“Can you read it all by yourself?”

“...Some.” The boy chews his lower lip before drawing himself up. “But soon I'm starting school. Then I'll be able to read anything.”

“I'm sure you will.” Grantaire isn't sure what he's hoping to achieve here, why he thinks he can negate the miserable life stretching out before this child with one act of kindness, but it's hardly the first time he's had such a notion. It's part of what makes him defective, by the standards of his own kind. “Do you want me to read it to you for now?”

The boy stares at him as if he just asked if he'd like to go to space. At length he nods and hands over the book cautiously, like he expects this is a joke that might blow up in his face at any moment, and it makes Grantaire hate every single hunter here.

He sits down on the floor with his back against the wall and starts to read. It's not a children's book; it's a volume of Celtic myths and legends, which he expects some hunter had been using for research and, finding it unhelpful, had left it here. Still, the stories are entertaining enough, and he's not above putting on stupid voices to make them more appealing. He's sure his brothers and sisters would be horrified to see one of their own cavorting for the amusement of a human child, but that thought really only encourages him. Really, he chose human children over his family a long time ago.

He makes the boy laugh and counts it as an achievement, because his soul is as sombre as his eyes and that's not right; children _should_ laugh.

The boy's parents come back alive, and when they do he runs to them – his mother smiles and bends to hug him, but his father only snatches the stuffed bear from his arms and snaps that he's too old for baby toys.

~

The next time Grantaire slips into the Musain, two years later, the boy is still sitting in that same corner, but he isn't alone. There's a pram parked next to him, with the corner of a pink blanket poking out over the side. The boy is studiously writing something in a notebook, but keeps getting to his feet to look anxiously into the pram, as if the baby inside might be stolen if he turns his back for too long.

Grantaire sighs heavily.

~

The time after that, the boy is nine years old and he is the only person in the Musain's upper floor. He's sitting at a table which is almost completely covered in guns. As Grantaire watches, he slowly but methodically takes each one apart, cleans the individual parts, then puts them back together again. His fingers are stained with dirt and grease and are shaking slightly from exhaustion. The bridge of his nose is dirty from repeatedly pushing his glasses back up with a grubby hand. He's absolutely miserable.

And Grantaire always knew this would be how it would go, and he knows this is only the beginning, but that doesn't make it any less horrible to see. And he can't do a thing; the boy is old enough that he might remember his face if he appears to him now. He wouldn't be able to come back to the Musain – not properly, not _visibly –_ for the rest of the boy's life. He could recognise him, even as an adult, and wonder why he hadn't aged since his childhood. And maybe that's a terrible and selfish reason to do nothing, but Grantaire is nothing if not terrible and selfish.

He stays, though, until the boy's work is finally done. It's the least he can do, he thinks.

~

Next time, the boy is twelve, and he isn't alone. There's a young man – in his early twenties and a hunter, by the look of him – sitting with him at his table, and he looks awkward. By contrast, the boy is calmly cleaning a new pile of guns. He is much faster at it now.

“Sorry about your mum,” the hunter says, dragging a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I just heard and...well, I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” the boy says without looking up. He's tall for his age, but skinny. He has a serious face, made all the more so by his somewhat severe black-framed glasses.

The hunter is practically squirming in his seat, his eyes looking anywhere but at the child he's trying so ineptly to comfort. Hunters just aren't cut out for offering sympathy, that much Grantaire knows. He thinks it's to this one's credit that he's at least trying, though. The rest of the hunters present sure aren't bothering.

“How...how was it she didn't take you with her?” the hunter asks finally. “If she took your sis?”

“Because she knew dad wouldn't let me go, I expect,” the boy replies plainly. He doesn't look sad, because he isn't thinking about what he is saying or what he is being asked. He is only thinking about the guns. “He's spent a long time training me now. He'd come after me if she tried to take me away. But he'll let the two of them go. He can't make mum hunt if she wants to stop. But he can make me.”

“I'm sorry,” the hunter mutters.

“Okay,” the boy says again.

Grantaire sits, unseen, at their table and smiles without pleasure and thinks that, yes, this is exactly the level of misery he was looking for today.

~

He loses track of time a little, after that. The boy is maybe fifteen or sixteen the next time he sees him. He tells himself that it doesn't matter. He tells himself that the boy's fate was set in stone from the moment he was born and that it's going exactly as he knew it would and that he shouldn't be surprised. He shouldn't watch, he should drift elsewhere while father and son argue in low, hissing voices in the corner the boy was always sent to as a child, but he does watch. He watches and listens.

“You didn't show up for target practice yesterday,” the father says. He has more grey in his hair than he did fifteen or sixteen years ago, but his eyes are no less steely and his hulking frame is no less threatening.

“I was studying. I have exams coming up,” the boy replies. He isn't as skinny as he was at age twelve, but he's lanky, he isn't built like his father, and the older man's eyes seem to rake over him in constant critical appraisal.

“Your exams don't matter. You're leaving school as soon as you turn sixteen.”

“I don't want to. I want to finish school, dad. Please. It's important to me.”

“It's not important to hunting.”

“Maybe I don't want to be a hunter,” the boy mutters.

“What?” his father says, a dangerous undercurrent in his tone.

“Don't act like it's a surprise. You know I don't want to.”

“You don't want to,” his father repeats in a mocking sneer. Without warning, he reaches over and seizes a handful of the boy's shirt, pulling him across the table towards him. “Don't think you can get away with anything just because we're outside. No one here is going to so much as blink if I blacken your eye.”

“Let me go,” the boy says, and Grantaire hates how unafraid he is, how he's too used to this to even bother being afraid anymore.

“Do you know why you don't have any grandparents? Any aunts or uncles?” the father demands.

“Yes,” the boy mutters.

“Then tell me.”

“Your parents were killed by a werewolf,” the boy recites dutifully. “Mum's family was wiped out by a nest of vampires.”

“Every last one of them. Torn apart or drained dry, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The father shoves the boy back into his chair. “But you don't want to be a hunter. Well. I'm sure they'd be delighted to know how little their murders mean to you.”

The boy says nothing. Grantaire can see him trying to care about these people who died long before he was even born, can see him trying so _hard._

“You're leaving school,” his father says with finality.

(Grantaire checks back a few months later, out of morbid curiosity, and it turns out the old man got his way.)

~

The boy is eighteen. He is tall and slender-built but strong. He is on his feet and talking heatedly to his father when Grantaire drifts in. He has a boxy, outdated-looking laptop set up on a table, and he is gesturing to it furiously as he talks. It's old, but it's still the most technologically advanced thing Grantaire has ever seen in the Musain.

“You're not listening!” the boy is saying angrily. “Word of mouth isn't good enough anymore. If we utilise computers, the _internet,_ we can build up a network, we can communicate with contacts in any city around the world instantaneously, we can have a _system._ We can know where all our allies are and assign them the closest case that's suited to their strengths. We can respond so much more _quickly,_ we just need to-”

“Do you think I trained you all these years to be some kind of fucking secretary?” his father roars. The rest of the hunters sitting hunched over their drinks pretend not to notice the altercation. The father snatches up the laptop – much as Grantaire remembers him snatching away a stuffed bear, some fourteen years ago – and throws it to the floor with a crash. It makes some strange, fizzling noises and then dies. The boy stares at it, pale-faced and tight-lipped.

“We've got word of a werewolf down in Lourdes,” his father says, shoving a gun into his hands. “Get to it.”

~

The boy is nineteen, and his father is dead.

He looks shaken but not overly devastated, and Grantaire doesn't blame him. Still, he is surrounded by older hunters, milling around him and patting his shoulder and muttering rough condolences, because they are the sort of people who consider his father to have been a great man.

A wraith, Grantaire gathers from the murmured conversations around him. The old man thought it was a ghost he was hunting. He hadn't been prepared. Hadn't had time to call for help. And now he's dead.

“What're you going to do now?” one man asks the boy. “You getting out of the life?”

“My father made sure I grew up good for absolutely nothing besides hunting,” the boy says shortly. “So I'll keep going. But I'm going to try it my way.”

“You're still banging on about that?” another old man growls. “Your father'll turn in his grave. Don't you want to make him proud?”

“I don't give a shit about making him proud,” the boy says bluntly.

“You should be ashamed,” the old man says tremulously, pointing a shaking finger at the boy's face. “Throwing away everything he ever taught you-”

He cuts himself off with a disgruntled shout as he is unceremoniously pushed to the side. A much younger hunter takes his place.

“You all can say what you like,” he says, nodding in the boy's direction. “But the kid there's got an idea for a system that might stop us from dying quite so much. And that's something I'd like to hear more about.”

~

By the time the boy is twenty-one, the Musain is his.

He has allies, he has lieutenants, he has people who disapprove but know better than to get in his way, but they are all just part of his web. He sits at the centre, he pulls all the strings.

Grantaire has been watching him quite closely for the last few years, with the strangest feeling of confused delight. Because this isn't how the story was meant to go. He's seen this story play out a thousand times, and it's always been the same: the child grows up bitter, becomes just another hate-filled, vengeance-driven hunter, maybe has a child of their own to carry on the legacy. It's never been like _this._ It's never been about about tearing down the old system and making a new, improved one, about saving more people and better-protecting your own. He's never seen this in a hunter before.

He thinks that maybe it's about time he came back to the Musain. Properly, that is.

The next time he visits, he doesn't float in, unseen; he walks in through the door like everyone else. He heads straight for the table where the boy - a young man, now, really - is sitting, with a new and much more advanced laptop in front of him.

“So you're the guide,” Grantaire says with a smile as he approaches. The boy looks up, blinks.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

“No,” Grantaire tells him. _I read you some stories when you were four,_ he wishes he could tell him. “But everyone's talking about you.”

“You're a hunter?” the boy says.

“Not so much. I'm not really one for fieldwork. I just enjoy the company.” Grantaire gestures towards the rest of the room, filled with miserable bastards as usual. Then, more seriously, “I think what you're doing is going to change things. For the better. Maybe it won't make things great, but it'll make them less awful.”

“I like to think so,” the boy says with a faint smile.

“Grantaire,” he says, holding out his hand for the boy to shake. He accepts it in a firm, sure grip. “What do they call you?”

“Combeferre,” he replies. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime,” Grantaire says, still smiling as he turns and heads for the bar.

He actually feels like he might be visiting the Musain less from now on. It seems like it just might not be miserable enough to meet his standards anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do me a favour and don’t let Combeferre send me that far north again anytime soon.”
> 
> “Because it’s too cold or because you miss me too much?”
> 
> -
> 
> Feuilly and Bahorel meet at the Musain for the first time in a while.

Feuilly leans back against the Musain’s bar, a faint smile playing on his lips. He has a beer in one hand but has almost forgotten about it; he’s watching Enjolras, on the other side of the room, regaling Combeferre with the tale of his first real hunt. Enjolras is practically glowing, exhilaration and pride making his eyes shine and his cheeks flush as he talks at a hundred miles a minute, and Combeferre surely knows everything there is to know about hunting vengeful spirits, but he’s smiling and nodding along, and Feuilly is endlessly glad that the two of them get along. Enjolras hadn’t made as good an impression on many of the Musain’s other patrons, who seem disgusted by such things as hope and passionate belief, which seem to make up approximately three quarters of Enjolras’s personality. No such patrons are bothering Enjolras just now, but Feuilly can see a few of them shooting him surly looks, annoyed at just being in close proximity to such enthusiasm. One of them accidentally catches Feuilly’s eye and he raises his bottle to them in both greeting and warning. _Yeah, that’s right, keep quiet. Spoil his night and this bottle is going straight up your ass._

He hears heavy footsteps to his right and turns his head to find Bahorel looming over him.

“You’re back late,” Feuilly comments.

“Every fucking train was delayed. I swear, I’d kill to take a plane, _just once_ ,” Bahorel grumbles, dumping his duffel at his feet.

“Hmm, good luck explaining the guns to airport security,” Feuilly murmurs half to himself while Bahorel hollers for the bartender and asks for rum.

“How was Finland?” Feuilly asks him after he’s taken a few sips and looks somewhat placated.

“Fucking cold,” Bahorel replies, but he’s smiling. “But it’s minus one werewolf now.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Do me a favour and don’t let Combeferre send me that far north again anytime soon.”

“Because it’s too cold or because you miss me too much?”

Bahorel snorts and elbows him roughly. He doesn’t answer, but instead nods in Enjolras’s direction.

“That your new trainee?” he asks. “Blondie there?”

“His name’s Enjolras,” Feuilly tells him. Bahorel squints and frowns slightly.

“I thought you didn’t like kids getting into hunting,” he says.

“He’s older than he looks,” Feuilly says. It had been the first thing he’d asked, because Enjolras could pass for sixteen, and if he really had been sixteen Feuilly would have sent him packing.

“Can’t be more than twenty,” Bahorel says with another snort. “Still a kid in my book.”

“He is a kid.” Enjolras is, in fact, nineteen, which isn’t a great deal better than sixteen, but it gives him a misplaced sense of adult independence and the stubbornness to match. “But he’s old enough to know what he’s doing, and there’s no talking him out of this. He wants to hunt. Better to teach him than try to dissuade him and have him take off on his own.”

“Sounds to me like you’re babysitting,” Bahorel chuckles.

Feuilly hums non-committally. Enjolras is actually only a few years younger than Combeferre, but Combeferre was born to a family of hunters and grew up surrounded by their brand of horror. He once told Feuilly that the first gift he remembers receiving from his father was a silver dagger when he was seven. Enjolras had never even fired a gun before Feuilly dragged him out to a deserted stretch of countryside and made him practice shooting at cans. It makes him seem a whole lot younger; a being from another world, almost. But that won’t last. Killing makes you grow up fast. Feuilly can’t help but feel sad, thinking about it. It was no coincidence that he chose a spirit for Enjolras’s first hunt with him. He supposes he wants to delay the killing as long as he can.

“I’m guessing you see something in him,” Bahorel says, startling him from his reverie.

“I do,” Feuilly agrees. “He’s got talent for the job. And drive. And it’s…hmm. For him, it’s not about revenge, or taking pleasure in the violence of it. It’s about helping people. I guess I like that about him.”

Bahorel raises an eyebrow at him wordlessly until he laughs quietly.

“Yeah, maybe that’s a bit much, coming from the guy who got into the life to avenge his murdered parents,” he concedes.

“No worse a reason than any other,” Bahorel says with a shrug.

“Just go easy on him, alright?” Feuilly says. “He’s not made many friends among the miserable crowd in this place.”

“Of course I’ll go easy on him,” Bahorel says, looking offended. “I’m not a complete bastard, you know.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes and smiles.

“And if anything ever happens to me, I want you to look out for him,” he adds.

Bahorel elbows him again, harder this time.

“Shut up,” he says. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan bravely pays a visit to Enjolras in the aftermath of the revelation of Grantaire's identity.
> 
> (Set during chapter 15 of Under My Wings You Will Find Refuge)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you all that chapter 15 was three chapters for the price of one - here's part two of three! And check it out, a first for this AU: Jehan POV :0 I was so excited to have an excuse to write from his perspective because, as you may have noticed, I..love him? I hope you'll like it, please let me know what you think!!!

~

Jehan feels a rush of air and sudden quiet in his mind when Grantaire leaves. Taking that as his cue, he knocks on the door in front of him.

As soon as he does it, it feels like a terrible mistake; dread crashes over him like a wave.

He hears footsteps approaching the door; before it even opens he knows it isn't Enjolras, but rather his friend, Courfeyrac, whom Jehan has never met before but has heard a lot about. Courfeyrac's thoughts, much as Jehan tries to block them out, match up exactly with Enjolras's description of his personality: bright, confident, warm and really quite loud. Jehan has seen Enjolras's memories of Courfeyrac before, too, so when the door opens and he is confronted with the same dark and artfully tousled hair and caramel-brown eyes he's glimpsed in those recollections, he can almost pretend that he isn't facing a total stranger – almost. His mouth feels very dry.

_oh hello cute stranger how the heck did you get in the building_

That's what Courfeyrac thinks when he sees Jehan on the welcome mat.

“Hi, can I help you?” is what he says, with a dimpled smile.

“Hello,” Jehan says. He cringes internally at his own nervous, wavering voice. “I'm here to see Enjolras, please. I'm- a friend of his.”

He sees Courfeyrac's smile fade and hears his thoughts descend into a spiral of concern and suspicion – _here for Enjolras? Did Enjolras tell anyone he was here? Safe? Not safe? Are you human please be human please I can't have Enjolras killing another monster in my apartment oh_ _g_ _od_

“My name is Jean Prouvaire,” Jehan offers. “He'll know me, if you tell him my name.”

Unexpectedly, though, Courfeyrac also seems to know him by his name. He brightens instantly.

“Prouvaire?” he repeats. “Yeah, Enjolras has mentioned you before! He said you're a good friend so you'd better come in.”

Courfeyrac waves him inside, and Jehan steps into the apartment with trepidation. Courfeyrac's mind is playing a distracting reel of everything he remembers Enjolras ever telling him about Jehan, including _it can be a little hard to be around him sometimes, since even your thoughts aren't private,_ but he doesn't take it to heart. He knows it must be difficult – it's difficult for him, too – and Enjolras certainly never expected him to hear it. He expects Enjolras might have things much more hurtful than that to say to him today. He has a vague sense of Enjolras's mind in another room nearby, and though he can't distinguish any specific thoughts from this distance, he can feel him hurting, and seething.

“Enjolras said you can read minds. I thought he must be messing with me. Can you really?” Courfeyrac asks with the sort of gawking curiosity that makes Jehan wants to shrink in on himself and disappear. People always want to _know,_ but knowing never makes them happy.

“Yes, I can,” he replies as matter-of-factly as he can. “I do my best not to intrude on people's minds but some things still tend to filter through no matter what I do. So, I'm sorry. I know that makes people uncomfortable.”

“What? No way, it's cool,” Courfeyrac says, even as he thinks _oh god yeah that's very uncomfortable WAIT can he hear me right now? Shit don't think about anything inappropriate don't do it- oh my god._

A slew of pornographic images shoot through Courfeyrac's mind in quick succession, only increasing in volume and vulgarity the more he tries not to think about them. This is a fairly standard reaction to finding out about his abilities, so Jehan is unfazed and politely pretends not to have seen anything.

“I'll let Enjolras know you're here,” Courfeyrac says. “Did he call you? Well, even if he didn't I'm sure you know he's- having a bad time.” This is punctuated with a slightly nervous laugh. “He'll be glad to see a friendly face other than mine.”

He turns to head down the hallway, but Jehan catches him by the sleeve and he looks back at him.

“He isn't going to be pleased to see me,” Jehan says quietly. “It's only fair I warn you.”

Courfeyrac frowns at him, questioning, but he says no more and in the end Courfeyrac turns away with a sigh.

 _Maybe one day I'll be allowed to understand even one part of this situation,_ he thinks a trifle sulkily as he walks away. He knocks on a door and sticks his head inside. A moment later he backs up as the door opens and Enjolras steps out.

He looks terrible, like he's been sleeping very little for far too long. He regards Jehan with a thoroughly unimpressed expression and folded arms. Jehan tries to weather his stare without flinching. Courfeyrac looks uneasy.

“I wondered if you might show up,” Enjolras says at length. His voice is even enough, but his thoughts are like venom, and Jehan tries as hard as he can not to hear any of them distinctly because he's sure they'd break his heart

“I know you're angry,” Jehan says, and he hates how meek he sounds but he can't _help it._ He makes himself take a few steps closer. “And I'm sorry, Enjolras.”

“I hope you've come to tell me your _very good_ reasons for not telling me the truth,” Enjolras says. “How exactly did he convince you to keep it from me?”

He doesn't say Grantaire's name, but his thoughts are full of it, sobbing it and screaming it in love and hate and everything in between, and it's dreadful.

“Grantaire asked me not to tell you what he was,” Jehan says in a voice so quiet it's almost a whisper. It still seems to echo fatally through the apartment. “He asked me, and I- I said okay.”

Enjolras gives a humourless snort.

“That's really all it took?” he says. “He didn't even have to threaten you, or use some mind-control powers I don't know about?”

“He wouldn't do anything like that,” Jehan says. “You know he wouldn't.”

“I don't know anything, apparently,” Enjolras snaps at him. “God. You lied for him just because he _asked you to?_ Why would you do that?”

 _Why would you do that to me?_ his mind cries out piteously. _I thought you were my friend! Do you hate me? Did you want to hurt me? Why why why why why-_

“He- he was scared of what you'd do if you found out,” Jehan says. He can feel his eyes brimming with tears from the anguished onslaught of Enjolras's thoughts but he tries to ignore it. “He said that he thought you'd kill him. But that wasn't it, exactly. Even then, he was scared of losing you.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. He's very pale, and his hands are in tight fists.

“He shouldn't have lied to you. And neither should I,” Jehan says softly. He cautiously comes a little closer again, like someone afraid of spooking a wild animal. “And I'm sorry. I thought- I thought he'd tell you when the time was right, and maybe it would be okay. I thought you weren't ready to hear it then.”

“That wasn't your call to make,” Enjolras says lowly, dangerously.

“I wasn't sure if telling you was my call, either,” Jehan confesses. “I thought the two of you just needed a little more time. I would have told you in an instant if I'd seen you were in any danger. But I could see how much he cared for you, and how desperately afraid he was, and-”

He's cut off when Enjolras, eyes blazing, closes the gap between them and shoves him backwards, hard. He hadn't even planned on doing it – Jehan would have seen it coming if he had. As it is, Jehan stumbles and tries to regain his footing while Enjolras scowls at him.

“Do you want me to feel sorry for him?” he snarls. “He started this! Nothing you say changes the fact that he lied, and you lied. Did the two of you laugh at how stupid I was? Was it a joke between you?”

“Enjolras, no,” Jehan says miserably.

“Or was this your way of finally taking revenge for Feuilly and I exorcising that ghost from your house?” Enjolras's face is twisted in an ugly sneer. “I always thought that deep down you were still holding that against me-”

“Enjolras, stop it,” Jehan says, shaking his head. The tears are spilling down his face now. “You know that's not true.”

“Stop telling me what I know!” Enjolras shouts at him. He makes a move like he wants to push him again, or maybe hit him, but Courfeyrac grabs his arm and holds him back. “All I know is that you chose him over me, and you lied, and you let him keep lying to me all this time, and _now_ you want to say you're _sorry-?”_

“You seemed happy,” Jehan sobs, and Enjolras halts mid-rant to stare at him. “When you were with him. You pretended like you weren't but I could see, and I hadn't seen you like that since before Feuilly died. I couldn't bring myself to ruin it. But I _am_ sorry. I should have told you. I should have made Grantaire tell you.”

Enjolras glares at him, tight-lipped, before pulling out of Courfeyrac's hold and striding away from both of them.

“Where are you going?” Courfeyrac calls after him.

“Out,” Enjolras replies shortly, slamming the apartment door behind him and leaving them in heavy silence. Jehan scrubs at his eyes. He turns toward Courfeyrac but doesn't quite dare to look at his face.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles. He feels like his apologies aren't worth very much. He turns to hurry from the apartment-

“Wait,” Courfeyrac says and as he says it he catches hold of Jehan's hand and Jehan freezes as the unexpected skin-on-skin contact sends him into free-fall through Courfeyrac's mind, a thousand-thousand thoughts and memories and images flooding into him, and for a moment he can't even tell where he ends and Courfeyrac begins but then he finds the presence of mind to wrench his hand away with a gasp. The clamour in his head quietens instantly, but he's already seen so much, and he burns all over with guilt. He looks up to see Courfeyrac looking perplexed.

“...You shouldn't touch me,” Jehan tells him quietly. “Skin to skin, I mean. It- amplifies your thoughts.”

“Oh. I didn't know.” Courfeyrac does a good job of keeping his expression calm, but he can't school his thoughts quite so well and they're screaming _shit shit what the fuck why is Enjolras's entire life and everything connected to it so fucking weird._ Despite this, he reaches out again, cautiously, and grasps Jehan's clothed forearm. Jehan can feel the warmth of his hand through his shirt and he could swear that alone is pulling him deeper into Courfeyrac's thoughts again, though it shouldn't.

“Don't run off, okay?” Courfeyrac says. “You're upset.”

“Why do you care if I'm upset?” Jehan asks before he can think to stop himself. He feels himself blush deeply; he thinks Courfeyrac's own candid nature is influencing him after that burst of close contact. “I mean, really, you should be angry with me too. You heard what I did.”

“You think I understood even half of that conversation?” Courfeyrac gives a weak laugh. He gives Jehan a nudge towards a nearby door. “Come on, come sit down.”

Jehan finds himself in a spacious kitchen; Courfeyrac ushers him into a chair at a round table and busies himself with rummaging in cupboards. Jehan can hear him thinking far too intently about whether Marius used the last of the milk, and if they have any good snacks hidden anywhere, trying to distract himself from the despondency and worry recent events have piled upon him.

“Do you want something to drink? Tea or coffee or...” Courfeyrac pauses as his hand finds an almost full bottle of vodka in a high cupboard. “Or something stronger?”

“Thanks, but I already tried drinking this all away last night,” Jehan confesses with an attempt at a smile. “I'm still suffering a little for it today.”

“Coffee, then?” Courfeyrac says, returning the smile with something like relief. He hasn't managed to get a single smile out of Enjolras since he arrived, his drifting thoughts inform Jehan.

“Just some water, maybe? Please.”

“I'm really happy to meet you, you know, even if the circumstances aren't the greatest,” Courfeyrac says after he's fetched Jehan a glass of water and joined him at the table. “Having Enjolras back is- I mean, it's beyond amazing. But he still kind of holds me at arm's length. I feel like he has this whole life now that I'm not allowed to know much about. He's talked about you, but I worried that I'd never get to meet you.”

“He just wants so badly to keep you out of harm's way,” Jehan says. “It's a big thing for him, to let himself have you in his life at all. He tried so hard to sever his old life from his hunter's life completely. And he almost succeeded, until Grantaire came along.”

“Grantaire?” Courfeyrac repeats. The name incites a mixed emotional response and conflicting thoughts; Jehan sees memories of Enjolras looking at Grantaire, clearly unaware he's being observed, his expression impossibly fond, then more recent memories of Enjolras pacing this same apartment, inconsolable, Grantaire's name like a curse on his lips.

“Grantaire is good at reminding Enjolras that he's a person, and that he's allowed to have what he wants sometimes,” Jehan says. “He helped Enjolras find his way back to you. Helped him feel like it could be okay.”

Courfeyrac thinks this over for a few long, quiet moments, which Jehan uses to take a few sips of water, wipe away the last of his tears and take a few deep breaths.

“What's going on with those two?” Courfeyrac asks finally, quietly. “Enjolras- I've never seen him like this. He won't tell me exactly what's wrong, or I'm just not understanding him. But I think Grantaire really hurt him.”

“Yes,” Jehan agrees. “He didn't want to, but he did.” He pauses a moment, then: “Grantaire isn't human.”

“Ah, yes. I thought Enjolras said something about that,” Courfeyrac says with an impressively calm nod that belies the litany of _what the fucks_ running through his mind. “I wasn't sure if he was being metaphorical. Given his line of work, I probably should have known better.” He shakes his head. Jehan can hear him thinking longingly of a time when his and Enjolras's biggest problems were university deadlines. “So, literally not human. I assume that's bad.”

“Oh, no. It's more difficult than that,” Jehan says. “It would be quite straightforward if Grantaire had been secretly _bad_ all along. He's not bad. He's just something different from us.”

“Then what's the problem?” Courfeyrac asks. Jehan ponders for a few moments, turning his half-empty glass around in his hands.

“I suppose the problem is that they're very much in love, but for the entire time that they were falling in love, Grantaire was lying about what he is,” he says finally. “And now that Enjolras knows he was lying about that, he's wondering what else was a lie. And he's thinking that maybe it was everything. That's why he's so angry and so hurt. Can you imagine loving someone, then having to ask yourself if you even know them at all?”

He looks up and finds Courfeyrac gaping at him, wide-eyed and so astonished that even his thoughts have temporarily gone quiet. His mind reboots a few seconds later, however. _LOVE?_ it screeches. _LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE ENJOLRAS –_ _ **ENJOLRAS –**_ _IS IN_ _ **LOVE?**_

“You didn't. Know about them?” Jehan asks in surprise. He'd always thought Enjolras and Grantaire were rather _obvious,_ even to people fortunate enough not to be able to hear their thoughts about each other.

“I.” Courfeyrac drags a hand down over his face. “I mean, I'm not blind, I knew there was _something_ there. Like, they were pretty clearly into each other. I figured something might come of it but- I guess I thought Enjolras might _talk_ to me about it before...before it got to the point where we're talking about _love_.”

“I'm pretty sure Enjolras only realised it himself very recently,” Jehan says with a soft laugh. “He's terrible at things like that, after all.” He sobers. “Him realising is what set all this in motion. It made Grantaire realise he couldn't keep lying.”

“And do you think Enjolras will be able to forgive the lying?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I don't know,” Jehan admits.

“And Grantaire, he really loves Enjolras too?”

“You wouldn't believe how much,” Jehan says.

“But he still lied.”

“He did,” Jehan agrees.

“Why?”

“Mmm.” Jehan hums thoughtfully. Grantaire's mind is such a tangled mess sometimes that even being able to hear his thoughts doesn't always guarantee that Jehan will know exactly what he's thinking. “Habit, partly, I think. He's been hiding what he is from everyone for such a long time. And from hunters, especially. Hunters tend to look at _what_ you are rather than who you are, and decide whether you get to live based on that alone.”

“Enjolras isn't like that,” Courfeyrac protests.

“Enjolras was...a little bit like that,” Jehan says as delicately as he can. “He's come around to the idea that someone being not human doesn't necessarily make them evil, but it's- it's new to him. He was still getting used to it. And now this.”

“Do you think Grantaire was afraid to tell him?” Courfeyrac asks.

“He was terrified,” Jehan says. “He had this idea that Enjolras would kill him if he found out.”

“Shit,” Courfeyrac mutters.

“It wasn't dying he was afraid of, though. Grantaire doesn't have much of a self-preservation instinct. He just- he wanted to protect Enjolras. And he couldn't keep doing that if he was dead.”

“So he kept lying.”

“I think he must have known, after some time, that Enjolras wouldn't really kill him,” Jehan says. “But- I don't even know if he knows this. But what he was really afraid of, most of all, was that Enjolras would reject him completely if he knew the truth. He couldn't bear the thought of not being able to be by Enjolras's side anymore. He built a fantasy and wanted to live in it as long as he could. And that's wrong, I know. But it's understandable.” He sighs. “I care about both of them. I feel bad for both of them. That's part of what makes this so hard.”

“What a disaster.” Courfeyrac puts his head in his hands. Jehan can hear him thinking longingly about that bottle of vodka in the cupboard. “They're kind of a couple of idiots, aren't they?”

The bluntness of the statement startles Jehan into a laugh.

“They are a bit,” he concedes. “If they were just a little better at communicating, and being honest about their feelings and, uh, identities, I'm sure things would have gone a lot more smoothly. But it's easy for us to say that, as onlookers.”

“Yeah, well, I've been dunking on Enjolras for being bad at feelings since we were kids. I'm not going to stop now,” Courfeyrac says. His mind becomes a perfect shrine of nostalgia for a few sweet moments; a rapid flip-book of images of Enjolras as Courfeyrac remembers him in their shared childhood. It warms something in Jehan's heart.

“I'm happy I got to meet you too, by the way,” Jehan says suddenly. “Enjolras told me so much about you, and I hoped- well, no, I didn't dare to hope. But I- always thought it would be nice.”

“Maybe when all this blows over, you can meet the rest of the gang,” Courfeyrac says, smiling. “We can have a proper get-together.”

Jehan tries but largely fails to smile back.

“Do you really think it'll blow over?” he asks. “That things will go back to the way they were?”

“I don't know about that,” Courfeyrac says with a shrug. “But they have to resolve it one way or another, right? They can't go on like _this._ ”

“I suppose,” Jehan murmurs. “I hope...”

He trails off. Courfeyrac looks at him curiously, head tilted to one side.

“Are you worried that Enjolras won't forgive you either if they don't fix their shit?” he asks, and it startles Jehan more than he'd like to admit, because Courfeyrac definitely isn't a psychic like him but apparently he's highly intuitive, and Jehan isn't terribly used to that. He's friends with Enjolras and Grantaire, after all.

“He's very angry,” Jehan says in a small voice. “I knew he would be, but...”

“So you knew what Grantaire was from the beginning?” Courfeyrac asks. “Sorry, I'm still like, piecing together exactly what's going on.”

“I knew as soon as I saw him,” Jehan says. “They'd already been travelling together for quite a long time by then.”

“And you didn't tell.”

“No, I didn't.” Jehan waits for the disapproval and the judgement, but it doesn't come. Courfeyrac remains merely curious, and waits to hear more. Jehan sighs.

“I know it seems like it doesn't make sense,” he continues. “Enjolras and I were already friends, had known each other for years. Grantaire was a stranger. I'm sure it seems ridiculous and terrible that I didn't expose him right away.”

“So why didn't you?”

“I...” Jehan hesitates. It's not an easy thing to explain, to someone who's never had other people's thoughts ringing in their head. “The moment I saw him, I saw what he was, and it startled me but I wasn't afraid. I could see that he wasn't something evil. But more than that, I could...hear it. Feel it? His mind was unguarded in that moment, and so powerful. I learned more in the first moment I looked at him than any ordinary person can imagine. It was like a bright flash, and I suddenly understood so much about him. And I liked him right away. How couldn't I? He's seen and done so much, and he thinks it's ruined him, but he's wrong. He's good, and he can't help _caring,_ even when he doesn't want to. And there's this terrible sadness in him, this feeling that there's no point in anything, but when he looks at Enjolras, that goes away a little. It's like he lights up, and there's hope, and so much love, and...” He stops himself abruptly, suddenly aware of how much he's talking and how far he still is from answering the question. He chances a look at Courfeyrac and sees him still smiling, gentle warmth and amusement that isn't at all mocking radiating from his mind.

“It sounds like your problem is that you're too nice,” Courfeyrac says. “You didn't want to hurt either of them.”

“And look how that turned out,” Jehan mutters to the tabletop.

“You were put in a difficult position.” Courfeyrac leans back and shrugs. “I don't know what I would have done, either.”

“You're very kind,” Jehan says without thinking. He feels his face burn when Courfeyrac looks at him in surprise. “I mean. I knew you were. Enjolras told me so, and I saw you in his-”

He cuts himself off, snaps his jaw shut, but it's too late.

“You saw me where?” Courfeyrac asks, before realisation hits him and his eyes go wide. “Wait, in Enjolras's thoughts? In his memories of me?”

Jehan nods apologetically.

“Oh my God.” Courfeyrac gives a slightly wild laugh. “I bet he showed you the absolute worst ones.”

“No,” Jehan says. “He didn't.”

“So.” Courfeyrac fidgets. “Is it like with Grantaire? Like, you saw me through Enjolras but now we've met for real, and I...” He holds up his hand as a reminder of their earlier moment of contact. “Is it the same? Do you know everything about me?”

“I don't know everything about anyone,” Jehan says. “And it's different with Grantaire. I don't have to hold back with him. He can reciprocate. He doesn't mind me being in his head.” He swallows hard. “But I do know more about you than I should. I try to see and hear as little as I can, I promise. But I can't keep everything out. Especially when...” He mirrors Courfeyrac's gesture and holds up his hand, wiggles his fingers.

“That seems pretty unfair,” Courfeyrac remarks.

“It is unfair,” Jehan agrees. “And I'm sorry.”

“I mean it seems unfair to _you_ ,” Courfeyrac laughs.

“Me?”

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac isn't laughing as he continues. “It must be hard, right? To know and understand people so quickly, even when you don't want to, and to have them treat you like a stranger in return, because they can't do the same for you. That must. Suck.”

“Uh.” Jehan is so taken-aback that, for the first time in a very long time, his own mind is briefly stunned completely silent.

“For the record, I think Enjolras will forgive you. But no matter how things turn out, please come visit again.” Courfeyrac grins. “If you can handle being near my thoughts, that is. I know that even I wish my brain would shut up sometimes.”

“I- why?” Jehan asks helplessly. He's holding himself as far from Courfeyrac's mind as possible. He doesn't want to see that this is a joke, or something else equally cruel.

“Well, you've got to meet the others, for one thing. Especially Marius. You can finally solve the mystery of what the hell goes on in that boy's head.” No amount of mental distance could prevent Jehan from feeling the surge of affection that comes with that remark, letting him know it isn't meant remotely unkindly. “And, you know. I can't speak for the others but I at least would like to return the favour and get to know _you._ The old-fashioned way. If you have the patience for that sort of thing.”

Jehan can't hold back any longer; he lowers his defences a little, lets Courfeyrac's foremost thoughts wash over him, and sees that there's no joke, or even a lie to spare his feelings. Courfeyrac is as uneasy with having his private thoughts heard as one would expect, but he still wants to see Jehan again. Wants to know him.

“You're _too_ kind, I think, Courfeyrac,” Jehan says quietly, getting to his feet. “I'm not sure I know what to do with it.”

“Are you leaving?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I'm going to see Enjolras.” Jehan closes his eyes a moment, reaches out for Enjolras's mind. “I think he's a little calmer now. He might talk to me.”

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac repeats, blinking. “He- he went out, though. How do you know where he is?”

“Oh, he didn't go far,” Jehan says. “He's on the roof.”

“What?” Courfeyrac yelps. “No one's meant to go up there!”

“Trespassing is kind of an everyday thing for him,” Jehan reminds him as he walks to the kitchen door. He hesitates a moment. “Thank you. For- that.”

“See you again soon, Jean Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac says with one last smile and a wave.

 _Call me Jehan._ He almost says it. Part of him wants to. But not yet. Not yet.

Jehan exits the apartment and climbs the stairs to the roof, where he finds the door marked 'no entry' propped open. Enjolras is leaning back against the wall next to the doorway, idly surveying the view, and he doesn't seem terribly surprised when Jehan joins him. Jehan says his name, softly.

“I don't know what you want me to say,” Enjolras says. He does indeed seem calmer now, but in the sort of way that suggests he's just too tired to keep shouting, for now. “I'm still angry at you. I think I have a right to be.”

“Yeah,” Jehan agrees quietly. Enjolras sighs.

“You knew everything. Combeferre had his suspicions, as it turns out. It seems I was the only one stupid enough not to realise something was wrong,” he says.

“You're not stupid, Enjolras.”

“I wish you'd _told me_.” Enjolras's hands curl into fists; he glares the concrete under his feet. “If I'd known earlier, I never would've...” He trails off, but then laughs humourlessly. “I suppose it doesn't matter if I say it or not. I'm sure you already know what happened, from my mind or his.”

“Yes,” Jehan confesses.

“Don't dwell on it too much,” Enjolras says almost absently. “After all, it's not like it matters now.”

“Doesn't it?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “It doesn't.”

Jehan doesn't dare look at his mind to see if he means it.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks instead. Enjolras considers for a moment.

“I think I'm going to take a minute to really just get to grips with the fucking fiction that the last year has been,” he says finally, tone acidic. “And then I'm going to get back to work.”

He pushes himself off the wall and makes as if to go back inside, but stops.

“Is he with you?” he asks. He doesn't look at Jehan. “You're the only person I can think of that he would go to. You two seemed- close, right away.”

Jehan winces slightly. Enjolras's voice and thoughts aren't broadcasting the same confused jealousy he'd felt in Amsterdam, but there's something else there, something much more resentful.

“I don't think he planned on coming to me,” Jehan replies. “Not consciously. But he did come, eventually, and so far I've managed to make him stay.”

“I suppose I have you to thank, then, for me getting any explanation at all,” Enjolras says. “The eight days of radio silence make me think that he really was just planning on leaving me in the dark forever.”

“His judgement isn't the best,” Jehan says. “It's...muddied, when it comes to you.”

“Don't start making excuses for him again,” Enjolras says warningly.

“Okay.” Jehan hates this. He and Enjolras haven't had an interaction this cold, this stiflingly uncomfortable, since the early days of their acquaintance. It hurts to feel Enjolras throwing up walls between them again. “Is there anything you'd like me to tell him? From you?”

“ _No,_ ” Enjolras snaps immediately. Now he does look at Jehan, and the fierce flash of his eyes makes him shrink back. “No. There's nothing to say.”

“Okay,” Jehan says again, meekly. He tries his hardest not to be cowed by Enjolras's frosty stare, makes himself keep talking. “I don't know exactly how to make this up to you, Enjolras. But I'll try. I- I'll come see you again soon, if that's alright.”

“You can do what you want,” Enjolras says, turning away again with convincing disinterest, and that hurts too. “I doubt I'll be here very long, though.”

He vanishes back through the door before Jehan can question him any further, and Jehan gets the powerful impression that he is not meant to follow, so he doesn't. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He tries to tell himself that the worst is over, but he's not sure if he believes it.

He doesn't know an awful lot about praying; he hasn't done it at all since he was a child dutifully attending church with his parents. Does he need to clasp his hands? He gives it a try but feels foolish and lets them drop. He closes his eyes, and that feels right. Does he call for Grantaire or Rachmiel? He tries to do both, at the same time. Rachmiel is all the parts that make an angel, he thinks; the flying and the healing and the smiting, the core of power that he sometimes catches a whisper of. Grantaire is the rest. Grantaire is the person. Jehan wishes he could find a way to explain this to Enjolras. Without Grantaire, Rachmiel would be empty and unreachable. Without Rachmiel, Grantaire would still be Grantaire.

His muddled attempts at prayer must be successful, because Grantaire is suddenly there with him. Jehan goes to him and practically collapses against him. He feels drained. He can feel his limbs trembling slightly, because the scary thing is over and now his body is going to make him pay for doing it. He doesn't even look up when Grantaire spreads his beautiful wings, a sight he normally can't tear his eyes away from. He just wants to go home. More than that, he wants Enjolras to be his friend again, and for Enjolras and Grantaire to shout at each other a bit and then cry and hug and kiss like the love-struck idiots they are. But for now, going home will have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment!


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